The Manipulator
by hippiechick2112
Summary: A lone figure stood by a grave, clenching a scotch bottle and numerous memories. There was so much he held, the manipulation that saved him in the Army being one of them. Only this time, his expert skills would not spare him this grief. Story one of the series "By the Graveside".


**The Manipulator**

 **Note and Disclaimer: I obviously don't own the characters and plots of _M*A*S*H_. It's only fun to use the characters in another light. This is the first in a new series of short stories titled "By the Graveside". Enjoy!**

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This has been the first time he visited this particular graveside since the war ended. Korea did not allow him any luxuries until the armistice, trapping him in a prison sentence that dragged on for far too long. Even so, he was so caught up with going home to Maine and returning to a civilian life he coveted for three years, chasing away his nightmares with more alcohol. Working with people he knew dulled the ache and the money spent on the bottles, but that only kept Korea away for so long.

Grief did not allow him much time though. He had to conquer this demon somehow.

The manipulator kneeled before the resting place, one hand resting on the cold stone and the other holding a bottle of scotch. He placed the booze between some flowers someone planted, hiding it in case of looters. He damned the previous mourners who placed the hideous plants, believing this typical gesture inappropriate in every way except in the case of hiding the scotch. His former commanding officer was not one for the niceties in life or those traditions passed down from one man to the next. No, Henry Blake had been about fun and parties, allowing someone to lead him and somehow bypassing the system.

Sure, he had been malleable. Henry wasn't one for command. He hardly had control in the bedroom, from what this master of exploitation was aware of. No, Henry had been taken by the hand by one person or another and told how to conduct himself and why. From his mother to his wife and children at home and then in Korea with his company clerk and the rest of the camp, Henry Blake had skipped through his life in a passive sort of way, hoping that people would just leave him alone so he could relax.

The manipulator did not know what to say. There was so much he did to Henry Blake in this lifetime that this visit robbed him the words that told tales of woe, victory and even happiness. This master was home alive and Henry was not. He choked back a sob, feeling ashamed. He used the headstone to cover this indignity, his forehead sucking in the cold that only the afterlife provided.

Death should not have taken his gentle soul. The former commanding officer of the 4077th had been on his way home, newly discharged and ready to begin a new life with his family. He was over the Sea of Japan when his plane was shot down in the water. The so-called enemy had been kind enough to make the ending quick. Everyone onboard had perished instantaneously.

But in his mind, the manipulator did not see that. He saw warding off generals with a single bound, watching films from Havana in a dark office and playing poker with a huge bounty of gin, pretzels and cigars in those endless nights. There had been the Greek festival, indulging in Adam's Ribs and the endless spew of pranks that were not military in any way. Those memories came alive for him, clearer than any OR session ever will. Those he would hold close to his heart for the rest of his life.

The truth was harder to swallow. Never again will all of that happen. Living in the here and now only left behind those bittersweet images.

Oh, but there had been more, _so much more_ , and Henry Blake had easily been led to all of these fiascos. That was the pure joy in reacting them. The colonel always had their backs whenever no Regular Army brats had his typewriter. And the manipulator was right in the center of it, taking the hand of this man and telling him to remember how to be silly because these rules and regulations had no meaning, _no sense_ _whatsoever_. He had to dance away from the Army, sticking his tongue out at an institution that brought nothing except disorder, carnage and death.

But then again, that had always been Hawkeye Pierce's trademark. He would always twist a situation to his liking until he got his way. Justice and fairness dominated his life and the Army had been his playground. Only with Henry Blake, death had robbed him of the chance to participate the game again. That was one player he did not count on.

And he damned the Grim Reaper to hell.


End file.
